Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

Author's Note

So I've been very much off the radar for a while fan-fic wise. I'll admit I've been sulking a bit about the truly terrible "Vigilantes Vague", tried to write something else, which didn't turn out too well. Actually it was appalling and there were gold lame leggings in it too. Don't ask.

While I was writing "Vigilantes Vague" a number of events occurred which caused a certain amount of disruption. I had a couple of close relatives move back in with me, with all the chaos involved likes rooms filled with boxes of books, and also getting used to living with twice as many people. I don't do change well.

This was also the summer I signed up to White Collar Boxing. Which was a fantastic experience, and I really improved my sparring skills massively. I also ended up with a near constant headache that only really eased off after the actual fight. (I went the full three rounds but lost on points. Still, great experience) It seriously didn't do my concentration any favours and I'm unsure as to repeating the experience. Maybe I should do White Collar MMA instead…

Anyway, it's like "Vigilantes Vague" has been this massive road block that I can't get past. So instead of complaining about it I decided to grab the problem by its ears and give the kicking it truly deserved. After a couple of false starts I printed the entire thing off and physically cut and pasted the bits I wanted to keep into a new frame work that I could work with, splicing in the new bits of plot as I went. So there it is, if a story is getting you down attack it with scissors.

Some bits of it you will recognise from "Vigilantes Vague" especially in the first few chapters. After that, well…all bets are off.

I'm going to keep to my normal posting schedule, the first of the month. So, here it is, the first chapter of the re-write…

Inquisitor Carrow and the Phoenix Fiasco

Chapter 1

Carrow glowered down at the offensive little man who was currently bunkered behind the large and ugly mahogany desk of his office. How in the God-Emperor's name had he managed to get into this situation, and with Cornelius Fudge, of all people?

"…got disembowelled only a month ago," the pitiful meat-sack whined in his annoying little voice, "it's quite remarkable that you're actually alive, not forgetting being upright and walking around, but your Healer still hasn't cleared you. The rules are very clear in case such as this, Allesandor. Until your healer has filled in the relevant paperwork stating your return to full health, you can't be reinstated. I'm sorry, Allesandor, but that's the rules." Fudge shrugged unapologetically, ignoring Carrow's paint-blistering glare.

"Really, don't complain, Allesandor, you should just take the rest of the sick leave, because frankly it's a miracle you're still with us…but what if there's still some unforeseen complication that the healers haven't spotted yet…"

Complication? Carrow looked at Fudge in puzzlement; what was the idiot blithering about? If there had been some sort of unforeseen issue with his injuries, then he'd be dead by now. He was sure that all Healer Slaughter had had to do was stuff his guts back in and stitch him up. Nothing too serious at all.

"…my Great-Uncle Barnabas had this funny little cough, and he refused to take it to the healers." Fudge poked one pudgy finger in the air to emphasise his point. "Not only did it not go away, it got worse. Turned out he'd got a nasty case of Elmphysema, and ended up with a tree growing out of his throat, and that was the end of him!"

Would anybody notice if he just snapped Fudge's neck? If he propped him up carefully enough, it was likely nobody would notice the difference for days, probably at the point when the smell became too much for the average normal person. They really had no stamina.

"…had an idea," Fudge beamed manically at him, "we all know how easily you get bored!" He laughed uneasily.

Carrow fumed in outrage. He did not get bored. Astartes did not get bored. They were models of stoicism and self-discipline…what if he swiped some haddock or something from the kitchen and stuck it behind the drawers on Fudge's desk? The idiot wouldn't notice for absolutely ages…

"…fantastic opportunity for you. I understand you were a rather popular teacher with a large segment of the student population, so I'm sure they'll be absolutely delighted to see you back as the Defence teacher…"

"What?!" Carrow stared at the Minister who was now quivering behind his desk like a terrified deer. With what looked like an act of super-human will, Fudge pulled himself together.

"Exactly, Allesandor, Dumbledore has been struggling to find a new Defence teacher for this coming school year, and since you're available, and already have experience in the position…well, he could hardly turn you down, could he?"

Carrow stared; he could actually see the logic there, worryingly enough.

"See, I knew you would see the sense in this," Fudge smiled brightly at him, "and while you are there," he leaned forward as much as his rotund stomach would allow, "I need you to inspect the school, look at how it's run, at the staff's activities…all of them, especially Dumbledore. I don't know…he's talking to people, making new contacts with people like Narcissa Malfoy of all things...what if it's some sort of drive for power…" He faded off, staring anxiously into the distance. "Would...would you do that for me, please?"

Raising an eyebrow, Carrow sighed at the incompetence of the man. "Really, Cornelius. I can assure you that Albus Dumbledore is currently far too busy to be plotting against you. Why would he want to?"

"Please, Allesandor," Fudge begged pathetically. And he'd been doing so well up to this point too.

"Have you tried bribing him?" Carrow asked, more than a little exasperated.

Fudge stared, his train of thought temporarily derailed. "Erm…what…I, well…"

Sighing heavily, Carrow shook his head sadly. Fudge would be eaten alive in the Imperium, probably for mild entertainment, but even here in this soft and sheltered little world, how had he survived in politics? "You can bribe a man with more than coin. You just need to understand them, what makes them tick as it were."

This was apparently beyond the annoying little man's thought capacity, so Carrow turned to the annoying idiot's proposal, ignoring his pathetic twittering.

An inspection and analysis of the inner workings of the School. Carrow considered the undertaking for a moment; this could actually work rather nicely in his favour. He could leave Timothy where he was, currently gaining valuable experience of the inner workings of the local political system. In the meantime, he would take on the role of Defence Professor once more, which, while hardly the most taxing of duties would also give him ample opportunity to assess the talents and abilities of those in their last year, prime recruitment material. It would also give him ample opportunity to assess the quality of the education already available, which meant he could provide Timothy with all the data he needed for the new educational reforms that were the next step in reforming this sleepy parochial little culture.

Yes, this could work to his advantage. It would also leave him free to investigate the possible corruption within the Department of Muggle Relations that he had been saving for a rainy day. If he was "lucky", it might just be some greedy idiots with their fingers in the departmental budget, in which case he'd gladly expose them to public scrutiny. He'd be very disappointed if it turned out to only be that, he had a feeling that there was a lot bit more to it than sticky fingers.

"I will do this," he announced to a delighted Fudge.

"Excellent, excellent," the Minister burbled as he happily bounced in his chair seemingly oblivious to reality.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Damn it, Timothy growled round his cigarette as he paced along the pavement, coat flapping around his legs. Bloody Carrow and his bloody meetings, and since the giant lump had picked the Arena of all places for this delightful affair it could only mean he was seriously up to no good.

And now he was late to whatever shenanigans Carrow had cooked up this time.

Huffing out smoke in frustration, he crossed the street, taking the route that led to the back of the airfield. If he nipped across that, he could cut through to Aquila Industries and the R&D department, and of course, the attached Arena.

A dumper truck rumbled past him followed by another. He quickened his pace, worry knawing at his stomach. Last time he'd been down here, this almost a lane had led to a simple metal gate which gave access to the back of the airfield. It had also at some point been the main access for a range of agricultural buildings too, something to do with a dairy he thought, they'd been derelict for years, but now…one side of the lane was gone, the verge with its straggling hedge vanished, a swathe of new tarmac in its place, a new security fence on the other side, slender twigs sporting a few leaves poking up from the earth on the other side that would eventually form a new hedge.

This was odd and rather unexpected…

There was a security barrier across the lane…and beyond…the runway had been extended and there were a series of hangars, several already housing ugly boxy craft definitely designed by Carrow, maintenance people swarming around them.

Closer though was an ugly concrete building, what was probably an airport terminal at a guess, a large Brutalist looking thing, a series of abstract sculptured pillars marching across its front, that were to Timothy's utter disgust in the process of being gilded, the high-vis vests of the work-crew fluorescent yellow dots that crawled over and around the building. The whole effect was less 60's concrete chic, more South-American dictator…

Nearby a team were erecting a sign that proudly proclaimed British Eagle Airlines in black and gold, the stylised eagle logo (in gold of course, Timothy rolled his eyes at Carrow's predictability) glaring proudly into the distance.

"You've got to be kidding me," Timothy growled, "unbelievable." The complete bastard, starting another company without telling anyone…

"Can I help you?" one of the workmen had drifted over from the sign, eyeing him suspiciously from underneath his white hardhat.

"No…no," Timothy edged away not wanting to get involved in whatever this was, "I'm fine thanks."

.oOo.

Entering the Arena was rather like stepping into a small corner of Carrow's mind. The whole place seemed dedicated to the glorification of extreme violence. The large circular space could give a football stadium a run for its money on size alone, except that this arena was filled with an artificial landscape complete with a small wood, rocky outcrops and boulders and a waterfall that fed into a small pool that fed the stream which wound its way across the arena floor before disappearing through an arched opening underneath the viewing platform itself.

In the intricate steel work of the roof, lighting, which Timothy suspected were actually magical, helped recreate the feeling of an overcast summer's day. There was even a system to produce rain and even snow and hail. It really was quite a remarkable feat of engineering.

Not to forget the viewing platform itself. Timothy sidled into the opulent space, attempting to not draw attention to himself. The whole thing jutted out into the landscape enabling one to have a full and unobstructed view of all the action. It also appeared to have been designed with some pretty decadent entertaining in mind, what with the plushly upholstered seating, the beautifully carved marble, and statues of semi-naked ladies representing various aspects of the martial mind. The whole thing was pretty ridiculous. He breathed a sigh of exasperation as he looked round, taking in the odd gathering.

It appeared that the people from GE Inc. had turned up to deliver Carrow's new toy, the rotary canon, and of course Carrow being as he was, he'd taken this simple test of a new weapon and turned it into an impromptu party, the people from GE Inc. rubbing shoulders with Aquila Ind. Personnel, mainly the R&D lot, and of course some of Carrow's personal entourage, the vampires dressed in their UV proof body-gloves and masks. Actually, he had little to talk about in this regard as some of them were his people, curious as to why Carrow was so excited, and wanting to be forewarned before anything really dangerous happened. Wulfric was hovering as usual; he edged cautiously past the man trying not to attract his hyper-sensitive senses. Even Rita had turned up.

It apparently wasn't at all what the GE Inc. people had been expecting. Timothy raised an eyebrow as he looked round the people currently crowding the viewing platform. Frankly, he wasn't sure he blamed them; if he wasn't initiated into the ways of Carrow then he'd be pretty spooked too. This was all so…blatant, contrived as well. What was Carrow up to?

He shuffled up to the nearest telescope, one of several that were set up along the balustrade specifically so that spectators could get a better look at the violence occurring below. Carrow appeared to be up to his usual violence, striding across the artificial landscape with his new toy, so he swept the telescope up for a closer look at the wall paintings that towered above the artificial landscape in arched concrete niches. They had to be Carrow's handiwork; or at least even if he didn't paint them himself he certainly designed them. They looked like propaganda pictures for a violent fascist state in some war-torn future. Giant soldiers, male and female, gazed down, their expressions stern and resolute as they hefted their weapons, tanks of ugly and unfamiliar design, aircraft taking part in a dog-fight above a desert streaked world, a gigantic space ship covered in baroque encrustations ploughing through the darkness of space…

"Mr Faulkes…Tim! Where have you been?" Wulfric growled behind him.

Timothy cringed a moment not taking his eyes of the ridiculous space ship. "Just took a short-cut that turned out not to be a short-cut…did you know…"

"A short-cut," Wulfric echoed suspiciously.

"Yes, just a short-cut," Timothy turned to give him a one-eyed glare, "interesting too. Did you know Carrow has bought…started a new airline?"

Wulfric's glare turned to puzzlement.

"Quite," he gave the werewolf a tight smile, "the beginnings of a new airport, that's all I found, definitely not hazardous to my health. Okay."

"Okay," Wulfric said slowly, "an airport…really?"

"It's what it looked like," Timothy said with a shrug.

"So the Big Man's up to something," Wulfric sighed.

"When isn't he," Rita asked from his other side, ""Do you think Mr Carrow based the wall-paintings on things he actually saw?"

Timothy looked up a moment from his art-appreciation. "I think it highly likely."

Rita considered this for a moment. "So," she said slowly, "that means there are worlds out there, actual planets like ours with weather and plants and water and creatures living on them, like right now."

"Yes…yes…right at this moment," Timothy said, "living creatures, intelligent living creatures going about their lives, farming, building, making art and culture, having wars…" he shook himself, feeling thoroughly spooked.

"Have you tried the buffet yet?" Wulfric chirped, desperately trying to lighten the mood, "Cook's really pushed the boat out and made a cheese and pineapple hedgehog."

"Ah yes," Timothy muttered, "the cheese and pineapple hedgehog, the very height of haute cuisine."

From below came a crackle of fire as Carrow disintegrated yet another target.

"Travel between the stars," Rita sighed as she stared off into the distance, "it's utterly mind boggling…"

"Come on you two," Wulfric huffed in amusement grabbing their elbows, "less introspection, more coffee and sandwiches. You both look like you need it."

Sighing, Timothy and Rita exchanged looks. "Honestly, Wulfric," Timothy said as they trailed over to the buffet table, "it's really disturbing when you start channelling my mother."

Rita smirked at Wulfric's indignant expression. "Look, I've just got your best interests at heart, like, you know, not letting you starve to death."

"I know, I know," Timothy patted his arm, "see," he grabbed a paper plate and dumped a couple of sandwiches on it, "I'm taking note of your concern."

Wulfric did not look impressed.

"Erm, excuse me…but this isn't how these things normally go," the nervous man from GE Inc. twittered, a couple of his colleagues hanging back behind him.

Timothy eyed him suspiciously. "How do you mean?" he asked.

"Well…well, there's all this and…and we get ushered into an indoor arena…landscaped tournament thingie…I don't know how to describe this place," he waved an arm out to encompass the view from the observation platform they were currently stood on.

Everyone looked around to see what he meant, including one of the researchers from the R&D department who seemed to have done something odd to her face that made her look as if she'd eaten loads of baby acromantula, and then just left the legs hanging out of her mouth like some peculiar beard.

He'd walked past her and a friend deep as he'd entered.

"…been thinking about getting another arm added."

"But Bethany, you've already got three…"

Timothy had decided it was probably best not to enquire.

"We generally call it the Arena," Timothy said eyeing the man from the corner of his eye, "I understand it's very useful for realistic tests such as these, among other things." He stared down at where Carrow was stalking slowly through some shrubby trees, his new weapon held at the ready. "At least this way you get to see that the modifications that were made are successful," he said.

"What? You mean like the carry handle and the loops for a shoulder strap, not to mention making the trigger assembly and grips suitable for jumbo sized fingers?" the man said sarcastically. "We normally mount this particular model of rotary canon on helicopters. Not much call for shoulder straps...or hand grips."

There really wasn't much he could say to that, Timothy thought, as he leaned on the balustrade, watching as Carrow came across yet another target, a pig carcass, spring loaded to suddenly pop up from behind a shrub. A sharp crackle from Carrow's new toy turned it into so much red mist and fleshy pulp.

"What's that?" the man asked suspiciously.

"Pig carcass." Timothy blinked non-plussed as the man looked utterly horrified. "What did you expect him to use? People?" Actually, Carrow probably would, given the opportunity.

Oh dear, the man looked really offended now. "Don't you do tests like these with your weapons?" Timothy asked, trying to defuse the situation.

"Well…yes, sort of…held tests and…"

"Can we watch too?" Hermione Granger asked brightly from behind them. Timothy turned to find the summer gathering of the Defence Club standing there in all their khaki mud-splattered glory hovering near the entrance, watching him expectantly.

Giving them an indulgent smile, Timothy waved them in. "No sitting on the balustrade though, remember."

"Yes, sir," they obediently chorused, trooping in with Tiffany and Felix trailing after them, much to Timothy's amusement. Like little ducklings, he thought.

"What the…" the man muttered edging away from the small crowd of weapon wielding children.

"Some young friends of Mr Carrow's," Timothy explained cheerfully, as Carrow exploded another pig carcass in a crackle of gun fire.

"When do we get armour like that?" Millicent Bulstrode asked wistfully as Carrow scrambled up a ten foot cliff as if it were nothing.

"Probably never." Timothy said. "That armour is completely unique to Mr Carrow, so we will most likely never see its like again," thank goodness, he added internally, "though I understand Professor Schmidt is attempting to reverse engineer it."

"Oh," Millicent sighed sadly.

"Huh," the man said, "if your expert manages it, you could make an absolute fortune. Think of the governments who'd love to get their hands on something like that."

Timothy gave the idiot man a withering glare; no, he would not like to think of the sort of governments who'd like armour like that.

A flat boom sounded from below, accompanied by a vivid flash of light. It appeared that Carrow had taken other things to try out along with his new toy, given the size of that crater. Some sort of grenade by the looks of it, but it seemed odd given the steaming puddle of molten something it had left behind. Wonderful, he grimaced, another new product for the upcoming Expo then, which typically the Board were already getting the jitters over, mainly of the "will we be banned this year?" sort.

The man from GE Inc. just silently stared, seemingly transfixed by the scene of martial something or other that Carrow was busily displaying. Though at the moment, he seemed to be changing the ammunition of his new toy. Timothy glared at the box the ribbon of cartridges were spooling out of. That looked suspiciously like an Aquila product. What was Carrow up to now?

Movement by the doorway caught his attention. Hopefully it wasn't Artemis determined to join the fun. He wasn't sure the GE Inc. lot could take much more excitement. To his relief, it was Percy Weasley holding up a data slate, the word "Diggory" scrawled across the screen.

So he'd found him, maybe. Timothy's heart gave a tentative leap of relief; when Cedric Diggory had failed to turn up for his summer internship at Carrow's Ministerial offices, Timothy had been extremely concerned, but with everything going on he hadn't had the chance to go digging but then Percy had volunteered for the task.

"I won't be a moment," he said vaguely as he strode to the door.

Wulfric gave him a disapproving glare as he pointed to his abandoned plate of food, Rita hiding her smile.

"Sir," Percy greeted him, a worried little frown on his usually serious face, "I've been unable to find Mr Diggory's exact location but I think I may have found a vague possibility." He tapped at his data-slate, scrolling through a menu of files before selecting one. "Look," he said, holding it up for his perusal.

"The R&D Department," Timothy frowned as he looked over the data displayed on the screen, "what the heck is he doing there? He was supposed to be at the Ministry…oh…the Garage?" He gave Percy an enquiring look.

Percy shrugged. "According to the gossip, that's what they're calling Professor Schmidt's lab, the R&D lot anyway. Even for Ravenclaws, they're not very sane, are they?"

Timothy shook his head in exasperation. "Nerds," he sighed, "but why would Carrow divert him there? His grades were good but…"

The distinct crackle of the rotary canon was followed by multiple whistling sounds and then a tooth rattling "Whoomph!" Timothy turned in horror at the strangely familiar sound.

The GE Inc. man stood pale and stunned, mouth hanging open as he stared down into the arena. That damn sword in Yugoslavia when he tried fiddling with some runes, Timothy thought as he stalked past, Percy trailing after him, and the R&D department had taken all his notes on it and done things. Looking over the balustrade, he groaned in frustration. Below, Carrow stood by a craggy boulder which was now peppered with a series of perfectly circular craters, as if someone had taken a giant ice-cream scoop to the rock. Nearby was the truncated remains of a jig that should have supported a pig carcass.

There was no pig carcass, not so much as a smear of gore visible on the ground, and Carrow looking disgustingly smug. Timothy glared in frustration; did the giant man not understand about the importance of confidentiality and secrecy when it came to experimental products? They were supposed to be running a business, damn it!

.oOo.

Timothy ground his teeth in frustration as Carrow entered onto the viewing platform, his power armour emitting its teeth aching whine as he strode softly in, the Purgatus of St Seraphim lazily snaking its way across his enormous chest plate, the floor shaking with his huge weight.

The GE Inc. people now looked ready to throw themselves over the balustrade and take their chances in the hostile landscape below. Even the Defence Club were keeping a respectful distance, though their eyes were full of awe and barely contained excitement. Rita had disappeared, though Timothy thought he caught a glimpse of blue as something small crawled under Wulfric's collar.

Carrow lovingly placed his new toy, sans ammunition, on its specially prepared rack, giving it an affectionate wipe with a cloth. He turned to the GE Inc. personnel who cringed back from his looming form.

"Are there particular prayer rites its machine spirit would prefer?" Carrow asked, giving the rotary canon a pat. "Specific machine oils it desires?"

The man from GE Inc. stuttered, his face a strange putty colour, "I, erm…er…" he looked around desperately for help or maybe somewhere to hide.

"Sir…Sir!" Timothy sidled up to him ready to do what he wasn't entirely sure. He gulped his nerves away as inhumanly green eyes stared down at him in curiosity, "I was curious as to your…reasons for the display of some of our more experimental products?"

He froze, trying to keep his face as blank and emotionless as possible as Carrow blinked, a sly smile spreading across his face for a moment. The large man glanced back at the shell-shocked visitors for a moment. "I was rather hoping to throw down the gauntlet to them; here is what we can do, now try and beat us."

"You're trying to deliberately start an arms development race," Timothy said slowly, "to what end?"

Carrow shrugged, a curious looking gesture in power armour, "my own amusement? You have to admit the weapons expo is rather tame."

Because the big man was bored. Timothy rubbed at his temples trying to stave off the impending headache. "Right."

"They just need a little encouragement I think," Carrow smiled, obviously thinking his argument completely reasonable, turning to the terrified GE Inc personnel.

Timothy gritted his teeth against the bone-aching whine of the power armour's servos, watching in growing apprehension as Carrow loomed with what he probably thought was a friendly and welcoming smile. Frankly, if someone looked at him like that, Timothy thought, he'd run for the hills.

"Would you like to…experience the joys of the Arena?" Carrow boomed, smile shark like.

"Err…" the GE Inc man stood frozen to the spot edging away slowly, "…wha…"

"Come now, don't be shy," Carrow's smile became even more terrifying, and before Timothy could even think of interfering, the large man had lunged forward, one giant hand ushering the GE Inc delivery person towards the weapons rack. Timothy caught his terrified expression for a moment, but there wasn't a thing he could do as Carrow began pointing out the various guns to him, extolling their particular virtues, before scooping up a Cadia IV and some ammo clips and ushering him towards the steps down.

"Oh well," Wulfric muttered as they all turned to the balustrade, "at least it isn't one of us for a change."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

How had he got himself roped into this? Timothy sighed heavily as he dragged his wardrobe doors open. It wasn't as if he was particularly good friends with Steve, finding him to be an utter and complete twit…and a ruddy bore, but when he told Mum he wasn't going, she'd given him a lecture that had left his ears ringing. Apparently it was unfriendly and unsupportive not to go to his cousin's wedding, whether he knew him that well or not.

"…besides, Tiffany and Tyler will be there, so we're going to need you to fix anything if they have a little accident with their magic, or just generally misbehave with it. My side of the family might be understanding about the carpet suddenly changing colours, but your father's side won't be…"

So that was that. With a tired sigh, he reached for the suit he'd had made in Knockturn. It looked old fashioned, but it was certainly smart and would do the trick, despite (according to Tiffany and Felix) making him look like an Edwardian gangster.

Except it wasn't there. Timothy desperately tried to blink the tiredness from his eyes. Blast it. This was bound be Carrow's handiwork; he frantically flipped through the meagre offerings of his wardrobe, his everyday dolman, currently very battered and on the verge of becoming his "mission" outfit, body-glove (absolutely not, especially not when people like Marvin Pratt were going to be there), robe, robe, fatigues, all in threadbare state, but he hadn't had the time to get to the Army Surplus place in town recently, or anywhere else for that matter. Tucked at the back behind his second best great-coat were two unfamiliar hanging travelling garment cases of the sort used for good suits. One of them had a note pinned to it, demanding "Wear Me" in Carrow's unmistakable and rather ugly handwriting.

Grinding his teeth in suppressed rage and frustration, Timothy pulled the covered garments out, hanging them on the wardrobe door while he decided what to do. Should he take a terrifying leap into the unknown, and have a look at what Carrow thought bettered the everyday dolman, or should he just go in his underwear? Heaven knows it would be less humiliating than whatever militaristic baroque monstrosity the Giant Lump was trying to foist on him.

He slumped down into his bedroom chair, face buried in his hands. Maybe a cigarette would calm his nerves, he thought, as he absently rubbed at the scars where his right eye used to be. The doctors and Healers all claimed that it was about as healed as it was going to get, but it still ached, especially in cold weather. A couple of air-freshening charms and the English Heritage loonies wouldn't even know what he'd been up to. The black Russian was a soothing presence as he took a drag, breathing smoke from his nose. Maybe he should just take a look at the bound-to-be-dreadful outfit.

A few minutes later, and his worst fears were confirmed. How the hell was he supposed to be seen near normal people wearing that? He stared at the awful, but beautifully made, garments in resigned horror. Time was getting on as well; he checked his watch. He only had a couple of hours before he absolutely had to leave.

Stuff this, he was just going to wear his everyday dolman and look like his usual everyday sort of plank self.

"You can't wear that," Carrow's voice boomed from the bedroom door as he pulled the threadbare garment from his wardrobe.

Timothy snarled in rage. "Well, I'm not wearing that." He jabbed an accusing finger at the offensive outfit. "If you think for ten seconds that I'm going to my cousin's wedding looking like a B–movie space Nazi, who's smoked a bad mushroom, you've got another thing coming! So give me back my suit, my nice normal boring suit!"

Carrow gave him a look of polite puzzlement as he stalked forward, his leather cassock swirling elegantly around his ankles. Behind him Artemis lounged in the doorway, delicately sniffing the edge of the carpet, her latest coir rope toy abandoned by her feet.

Plucking the everyday dolman from Timothy's unresisting fingers, he placed it carefully back into the wardrobe. "No. You will wear this outfit, Timothy." Carrow smiled down at him like a sated shark as he loomed over him. "When you go out in public, Interrogator Faulks, you represent me, and the Inquisition, and the Imperium of Man…such as it is. You are a servant of the living God-Emperor himself. Therefore, you have to look the part."

Timothy glared up at him, teeth practically biting through his cigarette. "You don't do this to the Vampires," he hissed, determined to hold his ground over his own clothes, just this once.

"That would be because the Coven aren't my apprentices," Carrow explained, "plus they have better dress sense that you do. Honestly, if I didn't intervene all the time, you'd end up looking like a younger version of that Bernard character."

Reeling back, utterly offended, Timothy fumed in outrage. Never in his entire life had he ever stooped so low as to wear black socks with tan sandals- though that jumper he'd spied Bernard in a couple of days ago hadn't been too bad…

"But that's not the point," he snarled in frustration, "my suit is perfectly acceptable for a wedding. It's smart, formal and completely appropriate for the occasion. This…this is…" he glared at the offending outfit at a complete loss for words.

"Is also smart and extremely formal," Carrow supplied for him, "and also marks you out as a servant of a higher power. They will be in awe of you."

Awe? Timothy blinked in disbelief. Of all the ridiculous, stupid…actually, he didn't have words to describe how he felt about this…this…"I'm not sure awe will be exactly what they will experience," he growled reaching again for his everyday dolman. Carrow gently kicked the door of the wardrobe shut, making the hefty piece of furniture rattle alarmingly. Standing in front of it, he brandished the still covered outfit, smirking down at Timothy in a manner he obviously thought was playful, or friendly even. Personally, it reminded Timothy of Artemis once when she'd spied rabbits in a field and had then managed to upset an entire troupe of Brownies by messily disembowelling one in front of them. He straightened his spine, tilting his head up aggressively as he glared at the giant controlling bully.

Completely unfazed, Carrow raised an eyebrow.

Growling, Timothy stormed forward, grabbing the offensive outfit out of Carrow's hands. "Fine," he snarled at the bemused giant, "fine," he snapped as he stomped into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him so hard it rattled in the doorframe.

He slumped down on the edge of the bath in utter defeat. Why couldn't he just say no to Carrow when it came to these things? He managed it with the running of Aquila Industries all the time, even with some of Carrow's more outlandish demands at the Ministry.

Slowly and miserably, he got dressed, briefly checking his appearance in the bathroom mirror. Yes, he looked utterly ridiculous. Jerking the bathroom door open, he found Carrow had laid out a brand new great-coat on his bed, along with his sword, his Browning and shoulder holster, a peaked cap with Carrow's Inquisitorial seal, a beautifully crisp silk sash in Ravenclaw colours (of course), and shiny knee-high boots. Really shiny patent, mirror-like, knee high boots. Timothy stared at them in horror. Oh, his humiliation was going to be complete. With a heavy heart he finished dressing, attempted to tame his hair, and put his eye-patch in place.

"Wonderful," he muttered as he examined his reflection in the wardrobe's full length mirror, "I look like a prize prat." He could just imagine people thinking it funny to tell him the D&D convention or whatever was "next week," hah hah.

"Don't forget your pistol," Carrow said.

Timothy rolled his eye. "Of course. If I want to get arrested. It's illegal for me to carry a gun in public like that…plus I'm going to a wedding reception. Why would I need to be armed?"

This seemed to puzzle Carrow. "But you wouldn't be. It's only a small pistol, hardly counts at all really, plus you're not objecting to the sword. I'm failing to see the difference."

Sometimes…Timothy closed his eye in exasperation. "I can claim the sword is ceremonial, but the pistol? No, really, just no." What sort of world had Carrow inhabited for a pistol to seem like a mere accessory? He knew it had been brutal, you just had to look at the man's power-armour to understand that…but still…

He turned, fully prepared to tell Carrow exactly what he thought about him and his awful dress-sense, only to spot Artemis trying to root around in his laundry basket. What was it with felines and grubby clothes?

"Drop that sock," he roared, "naughty Artemis, leave the sock!"

.oOo.

"Are you sure there are any deer left?" Ron asked as he glanced round at the surrounding trees and shrubby growth, scratching idly at the camo-paint he'd liberally applied to his face. "I'd have thought Artemis would have nabbed them all by now."

"It's worth a check," Neville said as he transformed back from a bear, "there's something fairly fresh on that tree there. I think it's wee, might be a dog."

"Yuck," Ron muttered as he adjusted his recurve bow. Somehow Hermione had blagged the powerful weapons out of Carrow, specifically for their use this summer. It was certainly making things more interesting. Definitely superior to the spears and other badly maintained weapons that they had had to get by with at Hogwarts. Maybe, if Hermione did the talking, Carrow would loan them out to the DC for next year.

"Right," Hermione said to herself as she pulled her hand drawn map of the wood, "we're about here. Greg and the others have gone along this route…so if we go this way…"

Ron stared in the direction she'd pointed, it all looked the same to him, full of trees and low slung branches and stinging nettles. Occasionally they'd come across an animal track through the undergrowth. Most of them, according to Neville's bearish sense of smell, were made by local cats, foxes, the odd badger, not many deer though, and that was what they were really after. "We'll find more nettles," he suggested.

Hermione rolled her eyes as she slowly stood and slunk forward into the bushes. Grinning, Neville followed her.

Well, fine. Ron glared after them, as long as they eventually bagged a deer. This wasn't a patch on hunting in the Forbidden Forest, they always came back with something interesting there…

.oOo.

The Hummer came to a growling halt in the car park, and Timothy took a moment to compose himself for the nightmare ahead. Right now, fighting a Nundu with a pointy stick wearing nothing but his underpants was looking rather appealing.

"I don't know what you're worried about," Wulfric said cheerfully as he slipped his aviator glasses on, "it's only a wedding reception."

Timothy gave him his best imitation of one of Carrow's steel melting glares. "Oh, I don't know…" he snarled, "maybe the fact that I'm dressed like a complete and utter prat, and I've brought a man as my "plus one". That's just to begin with, you understand. I suppose Artemis destroying one of my favourite socks, only one mind you, just counts as ordinary everyday annoyance."

Wulfric gave him a cheerful grin. "Honestly, Tim, I'm not your plus-one, I'm your bodyguard. I cleared it with Carrow and everything. The last time I left you alone, you nearly got yourself killed." He shot Timothy a look of serious concern.

"I don't need a bodyguard," Timothy ground his teeth in frustration as he wrenched the car door open, clambering down onto the wet gravel. "It's just a wedding reception; note the complete lack of marauding nundus and daemon hosts."

He slammed the door shut, looking around the car-park. Typically for a summer wedding, the day had begun with a torrential downpour. The sky, now a featureless and sullen grey from horizon to horizon, promised more of the same sometime very soon. It mirrored his mood rather nicely, Timothy thought, as he strode towards the venue (once a country house built somewhere around 1830, now a hotel), the overly cheerful werewolf trailing in his wake.

"It's only for invited guests, sir," the annoying member of staff in the foyer tried telling him, actually attempting to physically block his way. Timothy turned his best Carrow flattening glare on the slightly pudgy young man.

"I am an invited guest," he hissed, brandishing his gold trimmed invitation in the shaking man's face, "and this is my plus-one." He gestured towards Wulfric who looked like he was having a nasty coughing fit. "Are we clear?" he snarled.

"Yes, sir," the youth squeaked diving behind his desk. Timothy ignored him as he strode through into the hall itself, gritting his teeth at the reception he was likely to receive.

He blinked in surprise. The room, which he was sure was normally extremely tasteful in a neutral hotel-y sort of way, was now bedecked with streamers and balloons in strident pink, cream and old gold. But it was mainly pink, a strange sticking plaster, fleshy sort of pink.

Even the floral displays on the scattering of cream covered tables were overwhelmingly fleshy pink. It was rather unsettling and bizarrely unnatural. He eyed the floral arch that loomed behind the bride and groom who were now eyeing him suspiciously. Should he be concerned? Were there malevolent forces at play seeping out into the environment he currently occupied?

He looked around again, trying not to appear too suspicious as he checked for any of the symbols or signs Carrow had explained at length were a sure indicator of foul unnatural forces at play. He couldn't see anything obvious…but still.

Wulfric poked him in the back. "You all right?" he asked in concern.

Timothy looked back at him a moment. "Maybe Carrow was right and I should have brought my Browning after all," he muttered.

Wulfric just shook his head in amused exasperation as he poked him forward.

"Timothy!"

Jerking round at the ear-splitting screech, Timothy was just in time to catch the human missile as Tiffany slammed into his side, heedless of her bridesmaid's dress which Timothy couldn't help but notice gave the poor girl the appearance of being eaten alive by some sort of pink flesh-eating sea creature. The effect was actually rather alarming.

"You're here!" she bounced happily. "Now I won't be bored." Grabbing his arm, she began to tow him away into the crowd of distant relatives and family friends whose names he could never quite remember, Wulfric strolling after them, whistling cheerfully.

"Erm…your dress looks nice?" he finally hazarded.

Tiffany gave him a sarcastic look over her shoulder.

"All right, maybe not; I take it you're being suitably bribed for the occasion" Timothy sighed.

"Oh yes," Tiffany grinned, "most satisfactory as Uncle Allesandor would say."

"It does look suspiciously like you're being consumed by a carnivorous deep-sea creature," he pointed out.

Tiffany sniggered as she dragged him round a push-chair full of fat screaming toddler. "It does, doesn't it? I'm not sure anyone likes them really. In fact some of the old bridesmaids are so traumatised…"

Timothy mentally adjusted his definition of old to include anyone over the age of eighteen.

"…by it they're hanging around the bar drinking wine like Mum does when Auntie Beryl visits at Christmas." She rolled her eyes expressively. "She didn't stay long last time cause Tyler accidentally set her favourite coat on fire."

"Really?" Timothy raised an eyebrow unsurprised. If "Auntie Beryl" was anything like her boorish brother…

"Mum threw a bucket of water over it and screamed blue murder at Tyler, and Tyler bawled his eyes out and hid under the dining table and refused to come out, even when I tried bribing him with my bucket of jelly babies," Tiffany carried on cheerfully, "but Auntie Beryl left an entire day early, so it was actually quite a good Christmas really."

"Ah, well…" Timothy frowned, not quite sure what to say. "So, it turned out all right in the end then?"

"Yup," Tiffany said as she dragged him past some of the other younger bridesmaids.

"Tiffany," Trudi snapped, "I told you not to wander off."

"Look, Mum," Tiffany grinned completely ignoring her Mum's glower, "I found Timothy!"

Timothy stiffened under Trudi's disapproving glare. "So you've turned up, have you," she sniffed, "you look like a right prize idiot…and so does your friend."

Which coming from Trudi Pratt, Timothy felt, was a bit rich, considering her dress-sense. Take the fluorescent pink stretchy mini dress thing she had decided was appropriate for such an occasion; it even came with a matching little jacket. It really didn't help that her tan was darker than the dress, making it almost luminescent.

"Don't be horrible, Trudi," Mum sniffed disdainfully as she came over. Timothy looked at the thing perched on her carefully manicured hairstyle dubiously. Was that what they called a fascinator? It bore a striking resemblance to a very posh cat toy.

"Well, look at you," Mum sighed, as she adjusted the collar of his coat, "I see Allesandor got his hands on your wardrobe again. He does like things to be on the theatrical side, doesn't he?" She smiled up at him, giving his cheek an affectionate pat.

"Hi, Mum," Timothy muttered, as he gave her a peck on the cheek.

"And did you remember to send a donation to one of Steve and Kathy's favourite charities?"

"Well, yes, Mum," Timothy rolled his eye, "and I refrained from sending them flowers too, just as they asked on the invitation. I'm not a complete barbarian, you know."

"HEY, TIMMY!"

Timothy swivelled on the spot to find Matthew bearing down on him with a huge grin, sporting his immaculate No. 2 dress uniform. He braced himself as his older brother threw his arms around him. "Look, the Inquisition is here," Matthew practically yelled in his ear.

"Shut up Mattie," Timothy hissed as he tried to push his older brother away.

"Nobody expects the Inquisition," Wulfric chimed in gleefully.

"And you can shut up too," Timothy snarled as he tried to wrestle his brother off, so he could give Wulfric a much deserved glare.

"Hey, and Mr Soft Autumn himself as well," Matthew smirked gleefully.

Wulfric chuckled nervously as he shook Matthew's hand over Timothy's shoulder.

"You can let me go now," Timothy growled, beginning to lose his patience. Instead of obeying, much to Timothy's indignation, Matthew held him at arm's length. "What the hell happened to you?" he asked in concern, taking in the eye patch and the increased facial scarring.

Timothy batted away an exploratory hand in annoyance. "I'll tell you about it later," he growled. "Shouldn't we sit down? I think we're beginning to make a scene."

"Ah, erm…whoops," Matthew grinned nervously as he looked around.

"Idiot," Timothy muttered.

.oOo.

Ignoring the midges, Ron slunk through the undergrowth trying to minimise the crunch of old dead leaves under his heavy boots. They'd actually found what looked like deer tracks, pairs of almond shaped marks in the mud of a narrow path that wound through the undergrowth towards the river and a large willow tree that hung over the bank; it looked like that might be a favoured drinking spot.

So they had spread out among the trees, Neville reverting to a bear as he tried to get a scent of their quarry.

A rustling among the trees up ahead caught his attention. Relaxing against a tree he waited, it seemed far too large to be a badger, not to mention wrong time of day…not right for a fox either. Could this be?

Slowly he pulled an arrow from his quiver and put it to his bowstring. Gently breathing in he pulled it back to his ear…just a bit more…there…he released the shot…

.oOo.

"Unca…Unca Tim," Shaun happily proclaimed from his high chair across the table, waving his plastic fork wildly. Somehow the little tyke had managed to find some chocolate and now most of it was plastered around his mouth and down the front of his page-boy uniform and even in his hair.

"Seriously, what is with that eye patch?"

Who had been daft enough to think that sitting him next to Melvin Pratt was in any way a good idea? Timothy stabbed his steak with slightly more force than was strictly necessary. Could he help that he was imagining that it was the man's scraggly wrinkled over-tanned neck?

"…not believing for two seconds that you've actually lost an eye," Melvin carried on with a snort of disbelief, "I mean, please. It's just a silly little affectation like the rest of your outfit. You do know those poncey New-Romantics went out years ago," he laughed completely oblivious to the glares he was receiving from Mattie and Mum. "And where the crap did you get a leather coat with gold pretty patterns? Got it specially made at a bondage place, eh? Looks like a custom job, expensive on a toilet cleaner's budget…"

"Mum, what's bondage?" Tiffany hissed loudly.

"It was a gift from my employer, and for the last time I am a secretary. I haven't worked as a cleaner for years, thank the Go…humph," Timothy cleared his throat, his face stiffening. "He is very particular about how I present myself in public since I often represent him in an official capacity."

Melvin gave him a funny look. "Seriously? What a load of old cobblers, I bet he's just some old perve…"

Timothy ground his teeth, wishing Melvin would spontaneously combust. Where was accidental magic when you needed it? Then he'd be able to claim no knowledge.

"Oh, and as for the eye…" he sneered at Melvin, reaching up for his eye patch, "well…it's as you see…"

Melvin's fork dropped onto his plate with a clatter as his face turned a funny putty colour underneath all the fake tan.

"Cool!" Tiffany loudly proclaimed.

.oOo.

The scream that tore through the wood was most definitely not from a deer, in fact it sounded rather like…he sprinted forward through the undergrowth. Had he accidently shot a dog-walker? The trouble he'd be in if he had.

Crashing through a whippy stringy bush covered with funny white berries he skidded to a halt at the sight of Colin Creevey lying on his front, trousers around his ankles, hands clutching his backside from which protruded the arrow. A loo roll lay not far away from where it had rolled.

Oh no, he was so dead. Hermione was going to kill him and then Mum was going to resurrect him just she could kill him all over again and then…

Neville-the-Grizzly burst through the bushes stumbling to a halt, gaping in a very un-bear like way as he took in Colin's plight. The others arrived not long after.

"Oh dear," Greg said as he took in the scene, "someone needs to read up on identifying wildlife, I think."

"So, who needs glasses?" Millie asked as she examined Colin's injury. "Hmm, I think we're best to leave this alone. Sorry, Colin, but you need to see Healer Slaughter."

Ron winced as Colin whimpered. "I was only going to the toilet," the smaller boy sobbed, "I dropped my loo roll and everything."

"I think," Millie said, poking his injured buttock, "that your loo roll is the least of your worries at the moment."

Feeling guilty Ron picked the loo roll up, trying to brush the dead leaves and mud off as best he could. If only he was allowed to use his wand, he'd be able to fix the sorry object up no problem.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Greg suddenly burst out with a barely contained laugh.

"Wha?" Ron squawked, face flushing brilliant red, "I mean…yes. I'm…I am so sorry, Colin…I…just…"

"Look on the bright side, we get to practice improvising stretchers," Hermione pointed out.

.oOo.

At least the rain had eased off a little, Timothy thought miserably as he took a drag of his Black Russian, so something was going right today. Sure, he might had managed to get one over on Melvin Bloody Pratt, but he had a feeling Trudi was going to make him smart for it later,

The sooner he was away from this place and back to the relative sanity of the Lodge…well, that was proof positive he'd finally cracked. The Lodge sane? What a joke.

If it wasn't the archaeologists trying to dig holes in seemingly random places, then it was the English Heritage people ganging up with the archivists and causing trouble. Last week when they'd discovered Charlus Potter's correspondence with Andre Breton had been hellish. If only he hadn't had the bright idea that the Lodge could be a humanizing thing to make Carrow more palatable to the general public.

And Bernard had yet again got himself lost as he explored the underground complex that was still in the process of being built. What Carrow thought he needed it for was…actually, considering what he knew about the man, he really didn't want to consider what Carrow thought he was going to need a veritable underground city for.

Anyway, Bernard had got lost, yet again, this time complete with camping gear, tent, sleeping bag, stove, everything he would need for nearly a week's exploration. When he had eventually caught up with him, the man had been having an impromptu barbecue with some of the Dwarven excavators. Turned out Bernard was a keen amateur geologist, which had gone down really well with the Dwarves.

Plus there was the continuing saga of the (according to the archaeologists) Saxon village, but which according to the gardeners was their yard and collection of outbuildings, storage and offices, which they were determined to defend against hole-digging loonies at all costs. The ongoing negotiations were long winded and tedious as both parties nitpicked at each others' suggestions.

Just to put the tin lid on everything the archivist, a retired librarian, a meticulous and exacting sort of lady, had had to be let in on the existence of magic due to the nature of the records she was organising. That had not gone well- and then she'd got into a physical fight with one of the archaeology team who had accidentally misfiled some documents when doing some research about the Tudor part of the house. He hadn't realised it was possible to produce such awful bruises with just a rolled up newspaper.

A finger jabbed him hard in the cheek. Gasping for air, his heart pounding like an express train, Timothy whirled to find his big brother grinning at him.

"Damn it, Mattie, I nearly swallowed my cigarette," he complained.

Matthew shrugged, completely unrepentant. "Figured I'd found you out here. You know, Tiffany's rounded up some of the other kids so she can get them to re-enact some of your ah, adventures with various pilfered bits and pieces."

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Timothy dug out another cigarette; it had just been one of those days. "It's all a load of exaggerated rot. Felix has one sleep-over, and Annie and Caroline choose it as a golden opportunity to fill their heads with tall tales."

Matthew snorted with laughter. "I've seen you in action, remember," he bumped their shoulders together, "you've got nothing to ashamed of."

Timothy huffed in annoyance.

"Though I don't remember you ever telling me anything about riding a dragon into battle," Matthew continued.

"For Throne's sake," Timothy muttered as he rolled his eyes, ignoring Matthew's laughter.

"Fine," Timothy sighed, "enough about me, imaginary or not. How have you been? We…I…he, put you in an extremely difficult situation."

Matthew stared at him silently. "That's, erm…putting it mildly," he said eventually. "We were exonerated of any wrong doing…but we can't talk about it. To anyone. At all. Even you. Had to sign contracts to that effect even. So of course that means none of us can explain to the other lads what happened…so they're understandably suspicious of us."

His shoulders slumping in defeat, Timothy sighed. "I am so sorry, I…if only I hadn't…"

"Heh, what's done is done," Matthew said, "so, erm," he shifted nervously, "while we were in limbo me and the lads put our heads together and errr, made this," he pulled a folded wedge of paper from his pocket and thrust it into Timothy's hands.

Curious, he flattened it out to find a roughly stapled together pamphlet, its photocopied pages wonkily stapled together. "Zombie Combat 101," Timothy read with a small frown.

"Yeah, after that little incident we decided to put down as much as possible about tactics and such. What worked, what didn't, things to be mindful of," Matthew shrugged, "just in case we run into anything strange again. Had quite the fight over the title though." He gave Timothy a small grin.

"Good idea," Timothy nodded, "mind if I keep this? If I can think of anything to add I'll let you know, add it into my letters and that."

Matthew's grin broadened. "That'd be great…"

The distinctive shouting of Trudi on the warpath broke out behind them, as she began to berate her offspring. Timothy couldn't hear much, but words like fire…dragon…not allowed filtered outside. His heart dropping, he grabbed his brother's arm, and dragged him down the gravel path and round the corner to where a bedraggled rhododendron stood.

"Like Merlin I'm getting involved in that," he muttered under his breath as he stuffed the pamphlet into his sash (damn thing had to be good for something).

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "So…why? Never thought Trudi needed much help when it came to child-wrangling."

"They're both magical."

"Ah, right," Matthew laughed, "and then Mum dragged you into it since you're the nearest wizard." He paused almost nervously. "So…how's the big guy?"

Timothy gave the question some thought. "A bit irritable at the moment. He's recovering from being partly disembowelled…"

"What?" Matthew stared at him shock.

"According to him, he's fine, but I've noticed his scars are still giving him some discomfort. I suspect the medical people from where he's from used to keep patients like him unconscious until they were fully healed," Timothy said, "just to keep the whining, sulking and generally immature behaviour to an absolute minimum…but he saved my life when he did it, threw himself between me and it. I…I'd already been injured…this daemon host…"

"Like what we fought?" Matthew asked with increasing concern.

"Not quite. We were, or he was on the trail of a wanted magical criminal, but then it turned out this individual had resources that we were unaware of. Very dangerous resources that I doubt he even understood himself. It changed him and warped him until…literally out of nowhere, no warning, nothing…and went for me, took my eye out…" He shuddered at the memory. "And then…it's still really hard to talk about actually. The nightmares really aren't helping either. Does that make me a wimp?"

He jumped as Matthew slung an arm round his shoulders, pulling him close. "Seriously? No. But you might want to try talking to someone about it."

"Like a doctor? A psychiatrist?"

"Maybe," Matthew said slowly, "priests can be good too." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "So anyway, we got a new guy. Turns out he's a wizard, so he's now our unofficial battle-mage. Claims his speciality is Herbology, so we should be okay if we ever encounter any flesh-eating plants."

"A wizard," Timothy interrupted, "a muggleborn?"

"Probably," Matthew nodded, "he's being tight-lipped about it at the moment, but I've told him he's got to mug up about anything combat and creature related."

"Anybody I know?" Timothy asked.

"Naw. Doubt it. He's a bit younger than you…and a Hufflepuff too, I think." Matthew shook his head. "Seemed to be a bit reluctant about the whole battle-mage thing too, but then we explained about zombies to him as best we could, and he…"

"There you are!" Trudi marched round the corner in all her fluorescent pink glory, her heels scrunching in the gravel. "I've been bloody looking for you everywhere, Timothy. Are you going to come and fix this sodding mess up or what? Since your boyfriend isn't up to the task."

"Wulfric is not my boyfriend," Timothy snapped, "he's acting as my body guard, assistant…"

"Whatever," Trudi rolled her eyes dismissively.

A guilty looking Tiffany leaned around her mother. "Tim, I err…I tried making the trim on one of the tables sparkle…" she scuffed a pink patent shoe in the gravel guiltily, "and erm…it went wrong."

Timothy growled to himself, his heart sinking at the possible size of the mess he was now facing. Tiffany stared up at him beseechingly. "I'm really, really sorry," she said, almost in tears.

"Looks like a job for the Inquisition," Matthew elbowed him in the ribs as they followed Trudi back inside.

"Shut up, Mattie," Timothy muttered back.

oOo

"I take it the wedding reception proceeded in an orderly fashion."

Timothy looked up startled to find himself almost nose to chest with Carrow's latest attempt at a casual robe. It looked more like the sort of garment a High Priest of very dark gods would wear on his day off, the Purgatus of St Seraphim not helping matters as it slipped past his gaze, its runes glinting in the weak sunshine that poured in through the front doors of the Lodge.

"It was acceptable," Timothy conceded. Carrow smirked down at him. Giving the large man a dubious look, he tried to step round him only to find his path still blocked by a smirking Carrow.

"What?" Timothy snapped in exasperation. Today had been far too long and far too full of really annoying people. Right now, what he longed for was a sit down preferably with a nice big mug of tea.

"I have never been to a wedding reception," Carrow said, his head slightly tilted, "it is not something someone such as I myself generally receives invitations to, what with my social standing being as it is. I have always wondered, though…"

"I highly doubt you had the time for such things before," Timothy began.

"Such a pity I wasn't invited," Carrow carried on, "after all, I am practically a member of your family…"

Timothy choked back a cough. Obviously the Lump wasn't going to let this one go, so to distract the man, he pulled the zombie pamphlet from his sash. "Here, have a look at this."

Carrow looked down at the cobbled together thing, a puzzled frown on his face.

"Erm, sirs?"

Weasley had such excellent timing, Timothy thought, seeing a wonderful avenue of escape.

"Ah, Percival," Carrow turned still with that creepy little smile, "is young Colin more comfortable now?"

"What?" Timothy snarled, heart dropping. What had gone on while he'd been away?

Percy winced, and edged away slightly. "Yes, ah, Healer Slaughter managed to successfully remove the arrow from Mr Creevey's behind…ah…the only problem is, erm, Mrs Creevey. Of course we had to inform her that her son had been injured…"

"What's gone on?" Timothy stalked forward, ignoring Percy's quivering. "You let them have weapons, didn't you?" He turned on Carrow. "Unsupervised! Didn't you?"

"Only recurve bows," Carrow shrugged, a little crease of a frown appearing between his brows as he tried to work out why his apprentice was so upset. "I didn't allow them to take the Cadia's out hunting, because, as you implied this morning, their presence would cause difficulties with the local Arbites."

Timothy struggled to get his temper back under control; obviously the Giant Lump felt he'd been exceedingly responsible and thoughtful while completely forgetting that these were children he was dealing with. "Oh, and as if the local Constabulary are going to be thrilled about a bunch of teenagers wandering the local woods with recurve bows," he snarled.

"At their age," Carrow said, "I was an Aspirant of the Charnel Guard, had fought in a major campaign, and had already undergone the beginnings of my transformation to Astartes."

It was as if ice had slid down Timothy's spine.

"Er, Sirs," Percy desperately interrupted, "Mrs Creevy is coming here to retrieve her son, in person…erm, I just thought you should know."

"You're dealing with her," Timothy snapped at Carrow as he strode up the stairs, "you were stupid enough to give them the bows, so you get to clean up the mess."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The Potter family home exuded old money in a way that people like the Malfoys could only hope to aspire to, Barty Crouch Senior mused. Only a family that old and that wealthy would have such shabby though expensive wallpaper, or have a carpet that threadbare in such a public room. Of course, the carpet was most likely a real Persian hand-knotted woollen affair that would cost a small fortune to replace, but it still didn't change the fact that it had a bald patch near one end.

There was also the chair he was sitting in, an oak affair, the arms worn to a glass-like sheen with age. Also of wonderful quality he was sure, but of such an old design that it had probably last been fashionable sometime around 1342. He suspected it was some of the original furniture the multitudinous Potters had brought with them when they had first moved to this area, seeking to improve their fortunes.

Now there was only one left, sitting across the low table from him. A hulking intimidating figure with predatory calculating eyes and the personality of a hungry shark. As for his dress sense…where did he get his robes? He stared at the black brocade horrors Carrow was wearing today, with their row of gilded skull themed buttons down the front. It wasn't Twilfits & Tattings, that was for certain. He shook his head slightly trying to dislodge the unpleasant fuzzy feeling that seemed to be dogging him constantly at the moment.

Mr Crouch wasn't entirely clear why the Senior Under-Secretary had invited him to lunch, and he was definitely beginning to regret that glass of whisky he'd had first thing and the one at elevenses too. Wasn't the man supposed to be severely injured? But he appeared to be in reasonable health. This was all definitely a cause for concern, because if you didn't have all the facts, and Carrow was involved…

A shiver went down his spine as a lumpen servant entered the room, pushing a trolley laden with plates of sandwiches, cakes and tea-making paraphernalia…and of course, that led to the problem of what exactly did Carrow know? The man seemed to have spies and agents everywhere, all feeding him information and twisting the Ministry to his every whim and desire.

It was very clear, Carrow was highly dangerous, even now when he appeared to be on the defensive, with his young protégé taking his place for the time being. He winced at the memory of a particularly painful meeting he'd had with Faulks just a few days previously.

As the servant began to lay plates out on the table, it made soft groans and hisses, and Mr Crouch leaned away from it in revulsion. What sort of creatures did Carrow employ in his household? Some sort of illegal hybrid? If so, he'd be having words with the relevant Ministerial department.

He winced as the sleeve of its robe drew back, revealing brass mechanical parts, rods and cogs moving and shifting with the thing's motion, all of it embedded in pale pasty flesh that looked as if it had been dead for a while but carefully preserved, something black sliding slowly through its veins.

Some sort of flesh automaton then. His gut chilled at the realisation. He'd heard rumours about some of the last Potter's more unsavoury hobbies, having always dismissed them as political slander. It seemed Mr Carrow was a practitioner of some obscure branch of Necromancy, after all…though wasn't that contacting the spirits of the dead? Maybe Voodoo, they had zombie servants, didn't they?

He watched in revulsion as the hood of the robe slipped to reveal the pale flesh of the thing's face, slack-jawed and an unattractive grey, the eyes replaced with rune engraved crystal orbs that flickered and glowed, as the flesh golem jerked and moaned and sighed as it went about its task. Curious how familiar those freckles were…and that nose…and the chin…he dismissed the thought; he'd got enough on his plate currently without adding to it, by considering the Ministry's resident head-case's disgusting hobbies. Hopefully, the Aurors would catch up with him at some point.

"Would you like milk in your tea?" Carrow's booming voice asked.

Crouch's head snapped round to find Carrow smiling at him, displaying far too many white even teeth, his green eyes glinting icily.

"I err, yes…yes please," he said nervously.

"And sugar?" Carrow boomed.

"Two…two please," Crouch whispered, accepting the delicate bone china cup and saucer. Disturbingly (and typically) it appeared to be part of a mourning set, what with the tasteful purple, black and gold design of skulls and laurel wreaths. It felt like some sort of omen.

"Please help yourself to sandwiches," Carrow offered gesturing to the triangles of pale bread laid out in front of them. Crouch considered for a moment; did he really want to consume something that had been so recently near something so obviously half dead? It was a matter of hygiene after all. Under the heavy scrutiny of Carrow, he took a couple and placed them delicately on his plate. If he died of food poisoning, at least he'd be free of Carrow and all his other troubles.

This was all rather civilised really, in a mad twisted sort of way. The tea was excellent quality, and the potentially dangerous sandwiches…he took a bite of one; ham and cucumber with a dab of mustard. Not bad at all.

"And now to business," Carrow smiled toothily at him. Crouch's appetite rapidly retreated as he put down the rest of the sandwich.

"Ah yes," Crouch inwardly winced, shifting uncomfortably on his chair, "Haiti. Terrible business, I'm sure, but not really anything to do with us. I'm sure the magical authorities there are perfectly capable of apprehending Mr McGuire, and dealing with him without any intervention from us."

"Except Mr McGuire is also guilty of crimes in this country too, specifically that series of unpleasant incidents in the Knockturn area over the last couple of years," Carrow pointed out.

Crouch did his best to resist grinding his teeth. "I'm not sure…" he began but Carrow cut him off.

"Not to mention two possible home invasions, and I'd like a closer look at that pet of his," Carrow carried on. "I'm sure we'd have an answer to the second family's missing son."

"A matter for the muggle authorities, I'm sure," Crouch attempted to counter.

"A matter for all of us," Carrow said with bone chilling finality.

Crouch glared at him; why couldn't this annoying man just leave things well alone? The Ministry was a fine institution and had been doing its job for centuries in exactly the same way with little to no difficulty until Carrow had come along and blundered through things like a rabid troll, stepping on people's toes, upsetting proverbial apple-carts and poking his nose into business he damn well shouldn't. The man just didn't seem to know his place, but what would you expect from an uppity half-blood?

His glare deepened as Carrow smirked back, delicately nibbling on a sandwich which looked ridiculously small in his huge fingers. The arrogant, self-absorbed…Crouch fumed silently, shaking with nerves. What he would give for a little whisky right now. Why had he been stupid enough to agree to this? The small quantity of food he'd managed to ingest sat heavy on his stomach like a block of granite.

"Yes, a matter for all of us," Carrow repeated thoughtfully, "which is why I wished to speak with you."

Crouch felt his stomach fall even further. If it went any further it would end up in Carrow's wine cellars.

"As you well know," Carrow smiled smugly, "I often liaise with Madam Bones on problems she needs a specialist's touch for, which means I often operate outside this country, in order to purge Holy Terra of the foul taint of corruption that plagues Humanity. This is where you come in, Mr Crouch."

Foul taint? Holy Terra? What? Crouch stared at the giant lunatic in bewilderment.

Carrow leaned forward, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Sometimes I need someone in a position to smooth things out for me legally, reach out to your equivalents elsewhere and ease the way for treaties and other agreements as I require…including Mr McGuire's imminent retrieval."

"You expect me to be your personal lackey," Crouch snarled, rising sharply to his feet. But Carrow was unperturbed, sitting back in his chair, smirking lazily. Crouch winced and tensed as the large man snapped out something in garbled Latin. Was he casting some sort of spell? He looked round nervously at the sighing and hissing of the disgusting flesh golem, only to come face to face with it as it sightlessly began to carry out Carrow's instructions, clearing away the plates of savoury foods.

It did look horribly familiar; from this angle, it looked just like…Crouch yelped and jerked in his chair. This was his son, his actual son, his little boy turned into a play-thing by a monstrous evil man…

Hands shaking almost uncontrollably, Crouch settled back in his chair, watching as the thing that used to be his son laid out plates of cakes before retreating to its place beside the door. To Crouch's utter revulsion, the hideous creation appeared to be wearing a bib with a tray to catch the drool that ran continuously down its…his chin.

Shaken to his core, he turned to glare at the perpetrator of this foul deed, only to find Carrow leaning back in his chair, a smirk of utter satisfaction on his face, his green eyes cold and calculating.

"Would you like a cake?" Carrow almost grinned as he gestured towards the plates of fondant fancies, the skull buttons of his robes grinning along with him. Crouch slumped in his chair, utterly depressed and defeated. Oh, how he wished for a bottle of whisky right now.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The Chapel was dark as he slipped round the door, his entrance causing a rustle of movement and whispers among the multitude of wall-paintings as they noted his presence. The God-Emperor of Mankind crept carefully past the skull racks, ignoring their occupants' blank eyed stares. He paused in front of the main altar, the heroic depiction of himself slaying a daemon towering up behind it, the gold of his armour glinting in the dim light of a row of votive candles.

It was, in his opinion, the most annoying part of this space, dedicated to an entirely spurious worship of himself. Somehow Allesandor had managed to get the blasted thing to look just enough like him that it was causing problems, awkward questions, and strange stares. He'd managed to deflect the majority of them so far, but it was beginning to become extremely wearing.

He glared up at the representation of himself from a dark and desperate future that he was no longer certain of. For so long he had been so clear of the path that he trod, of how things would happen, play out, ending in a gradual darkening as Humanity spread across the galaxy, fighting against overwhelming odds. But then Allesandor Carrow had made his appearance and, like throwing a brick at a window, he had disrupted everything. Things were slowly beginning to settle, but to his resigned horror, Allesandor was instrumental to a whole host of important events in the near future…actually more like the next few centuries at the very minimum. All he could do was keep close to the annoying lump and try and keep the chaos to a minimum. At least he wasn't going to be bored for the foreseeable future.

Now to the pressing matter of his favourite mug. Darling little Allesandor had taken to running off with it and placing it in the Chapel for veneration and worship, as a holy object. He rolled his eyes in exasperation; at least it wasn't on the main altar this time.

The God-Emperor narrowed his eyes as he searched for any possible niches or other hiding places among the heavy decoration. Nothing obvious…but what about that little side chapel tucked in beside that particularly lurid skull rack? The God-Emperor sidled over, taking in its comparatively plain appearance. Just white-wash on the walls? Goodness, Allesandor must be slipping. Even the altar was undecorated, just a plain white linen cloth and fresh flowers among the candles and incense burner that stood in front of a double portrait. The God-Emperor paused a moment; was it him or did the man in the picture look uncommonly like Allesandor, if Allesandor wore glasses? A slow grin broke over his face. Were these Allesandor's parents?

He shuffled closer, examining the portrait with keen interest. Yes, that had to be it; Allesandor had made a shrine to venerate the memory of his parents. Sometimes it was too easy to just see Allesandor as a highly intelligent thug, but then he'd discover something like this about the annoying man. It was rather charming, almost sweet really.

Ah, there, next to the vase of flowers, his mug! He reached over, scooping it up.

"Oh! Hello," said the red-haired lady, apparently Allesandor's mother given the vivid green of her eyes, "are you a friend of my son's?"

The God-Emperor gave this some thought. "I suppose I am…in a way; enough to try and keep him out of trouble. We work together mainly." He gave her a smile.

"Really? I'm Lily by the way," the red-head smiled up at him, "I've seen you coming and going. Is the, err…I'm not sure how to ask this, but…" her eyes flicked towards the main altar, "you look remarkably like the St. George statue…"

"Ah, heh heh," the God-Emperor chuckled nervously as he cradled his favourite mug in both hands, "some sort of coincidence, I'm sure." He backed away nervously. Blasted statue.

"Please don't go," Lily sighed, a note of desperation seeping into her voice, "we hardly get any visitors…I mean ones capable of talking to us, anyway." She grimaced.

The God-Emperor sighed in understanding. Allesandor's growing collection of bone golems and other assorted flesh puppets could be rather alarming on first acquaintance, and second acquaintance, and third…and Allesandor couldn't seem to be persuaded that there was any sort of problem with them, morally or legally.

"So…ah…what were you here for?" Lily asked tentatively.

"Oh, I was just retrieving my mug," the God-Emperor explained, showing it to her.

"Star Trek," Lily sighed happily as she leaned forward in the picture to get a better look. Beside her, James grumbled slightly in his sleep as he shifted and stirred. "I remember watching that when it was first on the television…just before I started Hogwarts, actually. It was so exciting and new, and Spock…ooh," she smiled, blissfully happy at the distant memory, "Mum and me used to sit on the sofa together to watch it, and there were the arguments afterwards about whether Spock or Kirk was the dishiest."

James shook his head in disgust as he yawned widely and stretched. "Not romance novels again," he muttered darkly. Lily ignored him.

"You must have seen it when it when it first came out over here," the God-Emperor mused.

"Probably," Lily nodded slowly, "this was, erm…maybe 1969. Petty, my sister, never got involved, as she considered it all far beneath her." Lily sighed sadly, leaning into James, who put his arm around her comfortingly.

"That's sad," the God-Emperor said, "did you ever get to go to a sci-fi convention or anything like that?"

Lily and James looked at one another in puzzlement. "I'm not even sure what that is," Lily said, looking slightly worried.

The God-Emperor beamed happily as he began to explain. "…and I go to at least one a year, preferably more if I can...and if I can, I like to join in the cosplay, generally in Star Trek uniform like the original series, but sometimes I go as an orc, because who can resist Dungeons and Dragons?" He shrugged. "But one year I went as He-man. It was so hard finding a decent blonde wig."

Lily nodded seriously, James standing beside her with an increasingly incredulous expression. "And people actually pay good money to go to these…convention thingies…and dress up as…as imaginary creatures and people and things? I knew muggles were weird but still…"

"James, be nice," Lily jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.

"And one time," the God-Emperor carried on, really warming to his topic now, "I took this mug with me and…and Leonard Nimoy touched it."

"Oh, wow!" Lily breathed, completely oblivious to James's disgusted look